


Old adversaries

by Hypatia_66



Series: Vanya's [7]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28547799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya's past catches up with him. An old enemy needs help.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Angelique, Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Solo/Angelique
Series: Vanya's [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002009
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	Old adversaries

The old lady was there again, just standing against the wall not looking well. She seemed to be getting her breath, as if she’d been running. Vanya stopped and said, “Are you all right, ma’am?”

She glanced up fleetingly and nodded, but said nothing. “If you’re sure?” he said, before walking up the steps into the building.

She must live in the area somewhere; he had often seen her around. Occasionally they greeted each other with a slight smile as they passed in the street. He hoped she was getting enough to eat and wondered how to offer her some kind of help.

<><>

“A new model? Why, has someone left?”

“No, but you might like to see this girl – look, she brought in some photographs.” said Mathilde. “She has great allure, she’s like a cat.”

Vanya looked. “Where did you find her? In a back alley somewhere?” he said, unmoved.

“She came to see me to ask for a job when you were away. I thought she looked just right for us – I think you should see her.”

“Call her in.”

“She’s here now,” said Mathilde. “I’ll bring her. Her name is Diana DelaChasse.”

A little curious about her name – Diana, the Goddess of the Hunt – Vanya sat back and waited. The door opened again and the young woman came in behind Mathilde. “Miss DelaChasse,” said Mathilde.

“Mr Vanya,” said the girl, in a voice as smooth as honey but with an odd tinge of disbelief. She looked straight at him, examining him in detail, from his fair hair to his dark shoes – much as a very small child does but without the impartiality.

Slightly surprised, he looked her up and down before rising to shake hands.

A grey-eyed, attractive young woman with long white-blonde hair, she radiated the self-confidence of a much older woman. She was taller than he, a not uncommon attribute of many models. But there was also something faintly familiar about her. He didn’t think he had seen her before. Maybe it was because she conformed to a type – one of the current generation of young women who liked to challenge men of an older generation.

“You want to model for me,” he said.

“That’s right, Mr Vanya.” Again, that slight something in the voice as she said the name.

Young women made wonderful models but they could be irritating creatures, was his chief thought. “Why, in particular?” he asked.

“Because I would set off your style better than some of your other models.”

Mathilde was amused to see her flinch a little at the look Vanya gave her, but she defied his glare. Vanya now turned to Mathilde and said, “Take her away and put her in something. I’ll come when she’s ready,” and turned away.

Mathilde led her out and took her down to try some clothes. “I don’t think he likes me,” the girl said on the way.

“Don’t be misled,” said Mathilde comfortingly, though the girl was right. “He’s not an easy man to get to know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Really? Who from?” Mathilde was surprised – very few people knew Vanya’s identity.

The girl reddened. “Oh. Just someone who used to know him.” She said no more as she examined the clothes on the rail. “Can I try this one?” she asked.

<>

She filled the dress well – slim, but not skinny like the models of the last decade. She was posing provocatively when Vanya came in. He glanced at Mathilde and turned to look critically at the model. “My designs are not aimed at streetwalkers,” he said. “Try for a _slightly_ more demure posture.”

The girl straightened up and with a hand under her chin looked at him through her lashes. There was definitely something familiar about her. “Better,” he said noncommittally. “Now walk round the room.”

He observed with approval that she did indeed move with the grace of a cat.

“All right. Now try another costume – the trouser suit, Mathilde, please.”

He made no move to leave, and Miss DelaChasse uttered a protest.

“I will turn my back, if you are so shy,” said Vanya frostily.

<>

She _was_ good, though. His designs suited slim young women better than the very thin teenage models he sometimes employed. The seductive cat-like power she brought to the clothes also had a cat’s hands-off! quality with that something about her that aroused a sense of danger. Irresistible.

He sent her away and told her they would get back to her. She left the room, turning at the last moment to look at him coolly… and once again came that tingle of recognition.

“Who is she?” he asked Mathilde.

Mathilde replied, “She has been to some of our shows, that’s all I know.”

Maybe that was why she seemed familiar, but he didn’t think so.

<><>

It came to him in the night – in an almost forgotten dream in which Napoleon was waiting for him crouched in a flower like a huge spider. He woke sweating as he struck Napoleon over and over again…

He sat up, breathing heavily, his head in his hands. Napoleon… he hadn’t seen him for years, and hadn’t thought about him either, tried not to anyway. But a spider?

Then he had it.

The clock said 4.30. He lay down again but knew he wouldn’t sleep and an hour later, got up and went down to the office to think. Mathilde had told him that Miss DelaChasse knew who he was. He wondered, now that he thought he knew who _she_ was, why she wanted to work for him; why find him out now? 

He would not employ her.

**< ><> **

The designers conference, a weekly affair, generated some interesting arguments; things to think about. The geometric designs and primary colours of the last decade had gone. The flowing look that characterised Vanya’s portfolio was beginning to be used by other fashion houses. Maybe it would become clichéd. Was it time to forge an identity qualitatively different from before? Vanya was pondering this conundrum when Mathilde came in.

“Miss DelaChasse is here – she would like to see you.”

“What? Why?”

“She seems upset. Will you talk to her? She says she won’t leave till you do.”

Vanya rolled his eyes and flung down his pen. “I’m busy, Mathilde…”

“I know,” she said gently, “but _will_ you see her? It’s only fair.”

“What is it you want, Miss DelaChasse?” he said when she came in.

“Mr Kuryakin… I know it’s you – I need your help.”

“How do you know my name?”

“My sister told me. It’s her that needs your help,” she quavered, a little ungrammatically.

“If your sister’s name is Angelique, I suggest you look for Napoleon Solo.”

She acknowledged his recognition but said, “Mr Solo doesn’t seem to have an address in New York, but Thrush is looking for her here. They’re going to kill her.”

Illya was about to say ‘and not before time’, but restrained himself. “Any particular reason?” he said, hardly more tactfully.

“They know she’s betrayed them. Thrush promoted her relationship with Napoleon Solo but now they suspect she protected him – and you – from them.”

“And did she protect him? I never knew what her little game was.”

The wretched woman had always been treacherous. He couldn’t recall her protecting _him_ whatever she might have done for Napoleon, and whatever Napoleon himself used to assert. He really didn’t care. And it showed in his expression.

“She trusts you,” said Diana, beseechingly.

An old anger burned in him. At the furious look he cast in her direction, her face crumpled and she searched her purse fruitlessly for a handkerchief.

“Here,” he said, passing her his. “I’m sorry, Miss DelaChasse, or whatever your real name is, but I don’t trust your sister and never have. Whatever the threat, she has brought it on herself.”

“She said you’d be like that.”

“Oh _did_ she! So, she asked you to find me – is that it? Because if so, I am even less inclined to act.”

“Will you talk to her at least?”

Illya sighed. “No,” he said. “I want nothing to do with her or Thrush. That part of my life has been over for a long time. So I will not meet her, nor call her – not now, not ever.”

“Is that why you won’t employ me?” she said sadly. “I don’t belong to Thrush.”

She was startled by the bitterness in his laugh. “You expect me to believe that? I’m not a fool, Miss DelaChasse. You can have nothing more to say to me. I suggest you leave – my people will see you out.”

<>

It was a reminder that though he had long rejected that part of his life, old adversaries might not have forgotten or forgiven. Old instincts kicked in and he started to take more care when he left the building, taking increased note of his surroundings in case he was followed, not taking unnecessary short cuts through quiet streets. In restaurants he had never changed his old practice of sitting with his back to a wall, facing the door and windows but now he was more on the alert.

One night he went home to his own apartment, rather than the one he often used at Vanya’s, and as he arrived an elderly lady walking ahead of him in the rain, tripped and fell on one knee. He bent over her to help her up. She rose with difficulty and leaned on him heavily. He looked more closely. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. "Come in and sit down – I’ll see you home later, or do you need a doctor?”

She said breathlessly, “I only need to sit down a minute. I don’t need a doctor.”

He helped her up the steps. They had to use the elevator – something he rarely did – where she sat on the pull-down seat, her head bent. Ushering her out he unlocked his door and disabled the alarms and held it for her to go in.

“My,” she said softly, looking around. “This is very nice. What a lot of books.”

“Have a seat,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“No, dear,” she said. “I’ll feel better in a minute.”

“Can I get you a brandy or something?”

“You wouldn’t have vodka, would you? I haven’t had vodka in years,” she said wistfully.

Without even a blink at this surprising request, he said, “Vodka, it shall be,” and went out to retrieve the bottle from the freezer.

When he returned, the frail old lady now stood straight, and had removed hat, wig and glasses. “Illya,” she said.

“Angelique,” he said coolly, pouring the vodka. “I see I’ve been careless,” and held out the glass.

She took it and sipped. “I followed you before you started becoming watchful,” she said.

“And have _you_ been followed here?”

“No. You’re quite safe.”

“So, what do you want?”

“Your help.”

“Why me and not Napoleon?”

“Do _you_ see him?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. I don’t know where he is – and even if I did, he wouldn’t…” She met his eyes and said, “When he ditches you, I guess it’s forever.”

His expression froze, then he frowned. “What do you think I can do? I’m not involved with that trade any longer.”

There was a pause. She continued to sip her drink, watching him from under her lashes. Then she said suddenly, “I want you to kill me …” and stopped, hearing his intake of breath, and raising her hand amended this to, “make it _look_ like you have killed me.”

“Thanks, and get myself arrested for murder. Angelique, you are…”

“Illya, please… I only want you to help me to stage an accident – you could do that.”

<><><>

The woman knocked down by Vanya’s car had been taken away in the private ambulance. The medics had pronounced the woman dead and had whisked her away to the morgue. Her younger companion was still weeping on Vanya’s shoulder and when the police arrived they found them both distraught.

“She just ran out in front of me,” said Vanya. “There was no way I could have avoided her.”

The young woman, the only witness, corroborated his account. “It’s true,” she said, tearfully. “Her hat blew away… My sister wasn’t paying attention… the street was so quiet… oh dear!” and she buried her face in her handkerchief. Vanya stood helplessly by, watching her convincing distress.

The police listening to their story were sympathetic. They told Vanya that it didn’t look like they would need to press charges and left.

Vanya wiped his forehead. “I guess that worked,” he said.

<><>

“Now what?”

“I’ll have to get out of the country.”

“They’ll find you wherever you go, you know that,” he said.

“Not if it’s Russia.”

“Like Eastern Siberia, I suppose… Good God, Angelique, what sort of life do you think you’ll have there?”

“I do speak Russian – ah, you didn’t know that? Wouldn’t you like someone to set up a franchise for you somewhere, like Vladivostok for instance?” She smiled – it was a joke.

“Yes, but…”, he stuttered, then straightened up and said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Angelique’s throwaway comment had the effect of kickstarting a nebulous idea in Illya’s mind – not that he had any intention of employing her to carry it out. Certainly not.

Getting into the USSR to do business wouldn’t be easy even though some restrictions had been lifted. His American citizenship might not be much help with establishing a business and could even be a bar. On the other hand, the Soviet state was often happy to welcome famous people for their PR value. His newfound celebrity as a fashion designer might be an attraction because of the associated glamour.

But he couldn’t be sure.

If Angelique was really going to Siberia, maybe he could ask her to sound out the possibilities…

He supposed she would want him to make it worth her while. He wondered if he would have to employ her sister after all – and keep her as a hostage for Angelique’s good behaviour. He sighed – Angelique and good behaviour was an oxymoron if ever there was one.

But the prospect of forging a new identity for Vanya’s was definitely enticing.


End file.
